


too intoxicated to be scared

by blessed_image



Series: bury a friend: umbrella academy fics [13]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Agender Number Five | The Boy, Alcohol Abuse, Alcoholism, Angst, Atychiphobia, Blood, Existential Crisis, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/No Comfort, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Other, Vomiting, fear of failure, uhm ew, we need to fucking hug five omgjskdjek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 20:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessed_image/pseuds/blessed_image
Summary: Fuck the apocalypse.





	too intoxicated to be scared

**Author's Note:**

> hi uhhh yikes

It’s all they can think about.

 

Fire. Anguish. Blood. Ash. It’s all they can taste, all they can see, all they can feel.

 

Fire encases their body, melting skin from bone; hollowing out eyes, tracing angry patterns on flesh and throttling air out of them.

 

Fire is the feeling of alcohol purging all emotion out of them.

 

Anguish is pain. Anguish is agony. Agony is suffering. Anguish is heartbreak, and all the tears that come with- all the scratching on arms via fingernails, all the ichor that bleeds out of the small wounds. Anguish is the worst feeling in this world.

 

Blood is the red velvet that pours out ofphysical hurt, and only physical. It may feel like it should be leeking out at all harm: like when someone declares you worthless, or when someone leaves you behind. Blood is the embodiment of anguish, pain is the embodiment of humanity and all it’s little quirks.

 

Blood is the thing running down their wrist at 3am, when they hold the glass too tight and shards cut into their skin.

 

Ash is evil. Ash is suffocation. Ash is what Five sees instead of the snow everyone fantasises about. Ash is the blood of fire, ash has made a home inside lungs. Settled nicely, calm in comparison to how it got there- through hands wrapping around a throat, through curses and coughs.

 

Five thinks it’s all shit. Thinks the world is shit, thinks the past is shit, thinks the present is shit and definitely thinks the future is shit.

 

“The future is definitely the worst.” is what they push past their lips, hands shaking uncomfortably as they pour another glass of whiskey for themself. Discarding with a swipe the shattered cup that held their previous drink, no evidence of that found, to the other side of the table.

 

It’s all going to happen again.

 

They’re going to fail, their family is going to die and they’re going to have to do this whole thing all over again. Like Groundhog Day or some other shit.

 

There wasn’t long left and Five hasn’t made any fucking progress. Or, at least, not enough to mean anything.

 

Dolores was upstairs, they told her to rest as a way to escape her judgement. Told her that they were just going for a walk.

 

 _Liar_ is what a harsh voice in their brain whispers, a curse greeting the poison Five was voluntarily pushing past their lips. Dolores doesn’t need to see this, if she did then she would hate them. Maybe she would cry. Five doesn’t want to see her cry.

 

No one else needs to cry.

 

Allison does enough of that for them all, even though she thinks no one can tell. They presume that it’s because of her daughter; seperation rinsing her eyes like a cloth that had just plunged into water. Soft, solemn smiles that wouldn’t reach her red-rimmed eyes. She’s strong, though. The power to even smile in the slightest during these times, during this pressure is what makes Five admire her.

 

Maybe it’s because she has the strength to do something. No matter how hard it is. Unlike Five, who just sits around drowning away their failure. Maths won’t save the world, so why do they bother with the equations? Drinking won’t save the world, so why bother with the sport of getting drunk?

 

Five may be smart, but even they don’t have the answers to these questions.

 

Ben might’ve been able to explain, being better equipped to handle humans and their stupid, irrational behaviour. Maybe because he always had to deal with Klaus, and still has to right now- whilst the man cries about his life, falling into the arms of drugs to feel better about it all. Five supposes that, out of all the Hargreeves siblings, they are most like Klaus.

 

Another sip.

 

They don’t want to think about that anymore, pushing away the idea. Them and Klaus? Alike? Yeah, they’d rather not entertain that line of thought.

 

If there was any of them that Five would be okay being somewhat similar to, then it would be Diego. He was a good brother, didn’t let any of them down. Put everyone before himself, even Luther surprisingly. Five likes that quality about him, glaring down their own selfishness; ignoring the nagging in their brain, sounding suspiciously like all of their siblings, that tells them that Five is the opposite of selfish. Having traveled through time and survived for 45 years in a post-apocalyptic world for the simple want of keeping their siblings okay. Having become a trained assassin, having gone through a whole life of torment for other people. The way they would throw themself into the line of metaphorical fire from their father, to keep the rest of them safe.

 

Five scoffs.

 

They’re all like eachother, really. Brash, loud, ruthless and messed the fuck up. But none of this matters. Because, soon, no one was going to be loud or brash or anything. Soon, the world will be completely devoid of all sound. Dead.

 

They shake their head, chugging down the rest of their whiskey and slamming the glass down on the table- wincing at the sound that echoes throughout the room.

 

They had work to do, is all that runs through their mind. Work. Work. Work. God knows they’re the only one capable. They haven’t stayed awake four nights in a row- surviving only on spite, alcohol and coffee- to fail.

 

They haven’t come _so_ _fucking_ _far_ to fail.

 

The thought of that makes them gag, face scrunched up and a jittery hand reaching up to cup around their mouth. Failure. An ugly word for an ugly outcome. They would rather die than fail. But they guess that, if they died then they would fail. And now there’s no way out of it, there’s only a super slim chance and number of things they can do that means that they won’t fail. And now they’re spiralling.

 

Spiralling makes them feel worse, so now they’re bending over the kitchen sink with their disgust splashed out like a Van Gogh easel over the metal drain. Falling through like time falls through their own finger tips.

 

**Author's Note:**

> pain!


End file.
